Long before all my girlfriends starting popping out kids faster than an African nation without morally-sanctioned birth control, I proposed to them that we should institute an annual girls’ holiday. Nothing fancy, mind you, just a weekend away. Away from our partners, whatever children we may or may not have, and just spend some quality time talking girly stuff. Cement our friendship. A little Sex and the City, and lots of wine. Our future husbands would probably be doing annual boys’ golfing holidays, so hey, why can’t we do it too?
Now I thought this idea would go off like a frog in a sock, especially since we were all addicted to Sex and the City back in the day. How much arm-twisting does one need to spend time on a beach with some of your best girlfriends (oh, and did I mention wine?).
The idea was shut down completely by my girlfriends, pretty much without any discussion. They had already envisioned that there would come a time when they would have children, and a girls’ weekend and children just simply did not compute. I didn’t even feel like I was able to protest, since it was as futile as being a lone climate change voice at a Conservatives convention.
I was pretty disappointed. Actually, disappointment didn’t even begin to describe how I felt; there was more bewilderment and hurt. I was bewildered by their refusal to even consider leaving their children in their husbands’ capable hands for merely one night. And I was hurt that they didn’t cherish our friendship enough to spend just one night out of 365 together.
Fast forward to today, and now that most of my girlfriends have children, I recently proposed the idea again. I thought that with the realities of parenting understood, they’d be more amenable to it. They’d be gagging for girl time, where they can speak like adults for a whole weekend rather than in kid-speak. And the dads would relish the opportunity to eat sausage rolls on the couch, possibly in just their undies, and watch 8 hours straight of The Simpsons reruns with their children.